


Wheel of Westeros: Book Two Rise of Daenerys Part Three

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, F/F, F/M, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), The House with the Red Door, Visions, Werewolf Jon Snow, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Daenerys and Sansa both have to settle differences between their ladies. Sansa worries about her brother Jon as they work to rebuild their home. Daenerys samples a mysterious powder and has a vision that changes everything.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Irri/Jhiqui/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen, Myranda Royce & Mya Stone, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Victarion Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Wheel of Westeros [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Wheel of Westeros: Book Two Rise of Daenerys Part Three

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Two: Rise of Daenerys Part Three**

_Edit: I always forget about Jon's damned bird. Sansa would certainly notice._

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Daenerys

The day had been hot, so the great ballroom’s doors were left open into the courtyard of Dany’s Volantene manse, allowing the smells of frangipani and ginger flower from the garden to drift inside. Her gown, designed by Lady Shyrli with the heat in mind, was made of hundreds of interlocking pieces of leather, snakeskin, abalone shell, samite, and brocade that gave the appearance of dragon scales, cascading down into a tail at her feet and looping around one shoulder, with sleeves of fringed silk. The layers reflected light in waves, reminding her of the way her dragon eggs had looked, and letting the breeze flow into her skin. Her eyelids were painted black and gold, and her lips a blazing red. She wore a headdress of gold discs and peacock feathers. Maebi arrived late, wearing her crocodile skin dress with the shreds that flowed and danced about her tight leather breeches when she walked. The neck was high, but the dress was sleeveless to relieve her from the heat as well. Shyrli had braided her hair in loops and painted her lips with white mica, and her eyes with black kohl. When Dany kissed her, her giant silver earrings jingled.

“My priestess and mother…I’m glad you are here.”

“But of course. Why would I not be?” Maebi asked.

Of course, the Dothraki woman would deny that she had been sad for many weeks. Dany had been so caught up in the events of the great transition that it had taken her some time to realize what sending Ser Barristan away had done to Maebi. She had noticed their friendship certainly, but in her ignorance had dismissed the possibility of love between them. It only occurred to her when she had read the old knight’s letter telling her that her nephew and fiancé Aegon had chosen a wife to bear his children, and she saw Maebi’s eyes go wet. _How could I be so insensitive? Why shouldn’t she love a legend like him…and I parted them._

“I am sorry I did not see how you loved him,” Dany said, clutching Maebi’s hand. “Say the word and I will send for him…or, if I must, send you to him…” The thought of losing Maebi filled Dany with sorrow, but the great lady just shook her head.

“No Khaleesi…my place is here. Love will have its time. For all of us…” She placed a hand on Dany’s cheek, and then walked over to see the children. The little hostages leapt up gleefully to greet Maebi, who hid a pocketful of dried sugared beets under the folds of croc skin. It was lazy little Miklaz’s name day, and Dany had invited Dandelion, the singer and lute player who was also a red priest of Rh’llor, to entertain them. Lord Tyrion had also sent a friend from Mereen, a woman he had met while in the custody of the Second Sons, named Penny. She was a dwarf like him – even tinier, but very pretty – and she did an act with a giant sheepdog, playing a knight on a horse, that delighted all the little cupbearers, though Dany couldn’t help but think it was a little degrading. Still, it was kind of Lord Tyrion, who remained in charge of Mereen and had proved faithful so far, despite being the brother of her enemy – a Lannister. Dany had liked Penny immediately, and had decided to hire her permanently, though not necessarily for her dog act. She and her “steed”, who was named Ambrosius[1], would make the perfect disguise for a spying party after her husband Victarion.

It was the day she had given Ko Rakharo permission to marry that she received the disturbing letter from Euron Greyjoy, her husband’s rotten brother. Her Dothraki ladies Irri and Jhiqui, secretary and head housekeeper respectively, had been fighting over her Dothraki captain for over a year. She had hoped one of them would land eyes on Captain Aggo instead, the other remaining of her Kos, with her since her husband Khal Drogo was alive. Aggo had a rounder, smooth face with an adorable dimple on one cheek, while Rakharo’s cheekbones were chiseled sharp, and he had grown a hint of a beard on his chin. Aggo’s hair was wavy and partly sun-bleached, while Rakharo’s was the blackest black and very straight. Both had the typical almond-shaped eyes of the Dothraki, but Aggo’s were a luscious deep brown, and Rakharo’s were more amber. Dany tried to play their differences against them in her ladies, who had almost come to blows more than once. It was no use, and at last Aggo had gone to protect and serve Tyrion, who was acting as Treasurer as well, making Dany worry about him (and wary of him.)

When her advisor and herald Missandei reported that Jhiqui had broken a clay plate over Irri’s head in the kitchen, Dany had finally called all three of them into her audience chamber to settle the matter.

“I will not have this bickering…this court is held together by love. It must be, or we teeter on the brink of death,” Dany had scolded.

“But I love him truly…she loves only his braid,” Irri accused.

“You lie! I think of him day and night…you couldn’t understand,” Jhiqui whined.

“It is you who understands nothing! I would give my life for him!”

“ _Enough!_ ” Dany said, banging her palm against the arm of the balsawood chair they gave her for a throne. Rakharo was enjoying himself of course. He had been making love with both of them in turn, whenever he got the chance. She rose and walked over to the captain, who wore a vest of shiny steel scales and leather breeches studded with brass and lined with fox fur. He _was_ very handsome, and much cleverer than Aggo, that she had to admit.

“Rakharo, blood of my blood, I am going to have to cut you in half,” she said. “So tell me, which one would you like to have your face and to whom would you give your cock?”[2]

She glanced at the two ladies, who had forced Shyrli to spend hours braiding their hair, then decked themselves out with all the silver in Volantis it seemed, some of which hung on their breasts in place of a tunic. Both of their mouths hung open in shock.

“This is most amusing, Khaleesi,” Rakharo said.

“This is most annoying. You must decide this very moment. Choose one of my ladies to marry…or both of them. It’s up to you.”

Rakharo smiled smugly, and Dany sighed, knowing what his decision would be.

Now her captain would be married to two wives, and so would her own future husband, who she would be sharing with Princess Arianne Martell, once she was able to set Victarion aside. She could not refuse, though she would make a pretense of mulling over her approval. Arianne’s brother had been burned to death by her dragon, Rheagal, and his father must be appeased. _I mislike this trend of polygamy in my court_ , she had groaned. Ser Jorah Mormont, her longtime advisor and general, had reminded her that in the East, it was common, even expected, for men to have multiple wives. _She can’t be the change she wishes to see_ ,[3] Maebi had answered when Dany could only sigh heavily in frustration.

Afterward, the priest Moqorro warned Dany to read no more letters from Euron. _They may be poisoned,_ he said, _literally_. Dany forced him to admit the truth of the letter: that Victarion possessed a dragon-binding horn with which he could hope to wrest control of her dragons from her. Moqorro did not think the horn was the true horn, but Victarion did not understand this. He vowed to watch Victarion for her, and so Dany planned to send little Penny along with the white-haired dark-skinned priest of Rh’llor to keep an eye on the man who kept eyes on her husband. _He does love you, in his way_ , Moqorro swore, _but this makes him no less dangerous…_

Dany tried to forget all this as she listened to Dandelion play and sing to the cupbearers, who danced about to the tune of his lute. The priest wore a red leather duster studded with amethyst over his red tunic – a bit flashy for a slave of Rh’llor, she thought. The tune he sang in a high, powerful voice was joyful, though the words were sad.

_There is a woman who sits all alone by the pier…_

_Her husband was naughty and caused his wife so many tears…_

_He died without knowing forgiveness and now she is sad…_

_Maybe she’ll come to the park and forgive him…_

_And life won’t be so bad … **[4]**_

Mother Mole of the Freefolk appeared, wearing a saffron-colored linen robe cut for her by Shyrli and cinched at her tiny middle with a wide leather belt, which she still decked out with the bones, teeth and claws she had carried with her from the North of Westeros. Shyrli had tied her knot of mouse-brown hair on top of her head with a leather rope that matched her belt. She approached and bent to kiss the jeweled hand that Dany held out to her.

“Dearest Queen,” the little old woods witch said. “I want to thank you for sending us Lord Worm. He is most capable and patient.”

“I’m glad,” Dany said. “I hope he is not too stern.”

Dany had put the captain of her Unsullied guard, Grey Worm, in charge of training the Wildlings who had been transported by slavers from the North to Essos. The Freefolk were fierce fighters, but they were undisciplined and unorganized. Their style of fighting involved rushing headlong into the enemy unhorsed, all at once, which would not do against the Sons of the Harpy and the well-trained sellswords the good masters hired. Grey Worm had learned to speak the common tongue almost fluently under the tutelage of Missandei, and no soldier in the world knew discipline like the bravest member of the Unsullied. He used a broken spear as a kind of staff to show them how to march in line. Standing in front, he would whip it suddenly to his side at intervals, and any man or maid who had advanced too far would feel its sting.[5]

“The Freefolk are new to fighting in the way of your Unsullied soldiers, your radiance, but they will do as you bid as long as we are under your protection.”

“And you are, and will be always,” Dany said. “Just know that the Freefolk are still free. Say the word, and I will sail you home.”

Mother Mole shook her head sadly, the hoops of bone that hung from her earlobes wobbling. “It is you who must sail there first, great queen. You are meant to save our home, lest we never return again.”

Maebi came over to kiss Mother Mole on the cheek. The two women had spent a great deal of time talking about their gods with each other: Mother Mole’s Old Gods of the trees and stones and beasts of the forest, and Maebi’s Great Stallion. Mother Mole swore she had seen Dany delivering the Freefolk unto a new world in a vision, and Maebi thought Dany was either the Great Stallion who would mount the world, or his wife-to-be. Lately, Dany had been thinking more and more about what Mother Mole’s people had said about the Others and an army of dead men descending from the Land of Always Winter. The former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a young Northman named Jon Snow, had asked for her aid in fighting them. However, Maester Marwyn, who possessed a glass candle and knew much of such things, had seen Jon Snow’s death. Still, he insisted that what Mother Mole and Jon Snow had said was true: the dead were on the march, and without her help, the Seven Kingdoms would perish. But Dany’s own kingdom was still precarious…and incomplete. The good masters were unwilling to give up their property so easily, and she feared her people would slide back into chains if she left. Still, she knew now she must take the threat of the Others seriously. That was why she had allowed Dandelion to bring his glum friend, Branrick the merchant, with him to the manse.

Branrick sat hunched in a corner, watching the children dance with shifting, sad eyes. His pack, containing the gift he had promised to share with her, sat by his feet. He hadn’t partaken of any of the feast, and sipped at a cup of wine with a look of shame as if he’d stolen it, though Jhiqui had practically forced it into his hands. His red leather breeches and a black jerkin fit loosely over his bony frame. He hadn’t said from where in Westeros he hailed, but Dany had a feeling he was of the Iron Islands. It was muddled, but his accent certainly resembled her husband’s. Perhaps if she engaged him in conversation, she might find out if he knew her Victarion, and whether his people thought highly of him. Missandei, who always seemed to know what her queen was thinking, sidled up to her. She wore a white silk gown with a halter neck and a corset of shiny silver around the middle that matched the dragon bracelets around her arms. Her hair hung down in two thick brown braids, with silver thread woven through them, and pins made of amber shaped like butterflies. Shyrli had made a slouch of silver chain and amber beads that hung over her shoulders and twinkled in the light of the torches. She gave Dany a look, then looked over at Branrick, then back at Dany, who nodded. Most times, they didn’t need to say a word to each other. During feasts, audiences or council meetings, they would have dozens of mini-conversations, none of which anyone else could hear, because they never opened their mouths.

Chapter 2: Sansa

Sansa, Randa and Maddy were folding great piles of linens on her bed when Harrold came in, sneering predictably. He had been to Wintertown to find out what food stores and other provisions were available for purchase, and to hire laborers if there were any in need of work. The castle needed wool and thread, and women to sew and weave. They needed lard, flax, hemp, straw, wood…all manner of supplies for cooking and cleaning, not to mention cooks and scullions to do the work. They needed stableboys, chimney sweeps, milkmaids and stewards. They could use at least one more milk cow, more poultry, goats and swine as well…since the Boltons had killed most of the livestock. Sansa had spent every moment since she had returned to Winterfell washing clothes and bedding, sweeping floors and stuffing mattresses, chopping potatoes and onions, churning cream into butter, repairing boots and darning stockings – anything to help remake the old stronghold into the home it once was.

Randa had insisted that she brush and braid her copper-colored hair, and don the black velvet dress trimmed with Myrish lace at the neck and wolves in silver thread at the hems. It was her duty to look like the lady of the house, even though she’d be doing the work of a housemaid, Randa reasoned. Randa wore a simple linen frock in gray and light blue, as fitting a lady’s maid, and pinned her own braid to her head with a silver barrette shaped like the Stark direwolf. Harrold was of course affronted by Sansa’s slaving away in the kitchens and the laundry, which had made the skin on her fingers split and flake away and her eyes bloodshot by evening. Maddy rose to take his riding boots and doublet. Sansa and Randa ignored him.

“My lady, darling, please,” he muttered. “Can’t you do this in someone else’s room…or in a room designed for such things?”

“That room is currently a pile of cinders,” Sansa told him.

“Why don’t you tell your brother to make building another one a priority, as long as you’re both behaving like servants.”

“Jon is aiding the rebuilding effort in the order which he sees fit, as am I. It’s called behaving like a _leader_.”

Her half-brother Jon exhausted himself day after day, hauling rubble, chopping wood, sawing boards, chiseling away at the ice that had formed when the cold met hot spring water leaking through broken walls, looking like bubbly ice demons. Harrold had done some hunting, but still brought home less game than Jon did when he went out with his wolf Ghost in the dead of night. Her husband made good contacts among the townsfolk, but it was Jon they always grew to love, even though he’d brought with him a thousand Wildlings and was base born. Sansa was realizing that the stories she had read as a girl had it backwards. Heroes weren’t golden-haired with shining armor and poetic words. Heroes were covered in ugly scars and stunk of the woods. They were a brother with ice in his cropped black hair who drank ale in the dark and said little more than he had to.

Harrold snorted with jealousy. “Perhaps you ought to have married the bastard instead if you find him such a great leader.”

“Do I look like Cersei Lannister to you?”

Harrold laughed at that and dropped the subject, thankfully. Since they’d returned from the Riverlands, Harrold had left her alone, no longer seeming interested in forcing himself inside her whenever he felt like it. They were almost getting along, actually, but she knew it was because Harrold was afraid of Jon. He had seen Jon on the battlefield up close, and believed Jon was raving mad. Sansa defended her bastard brother, at least when it came to his warning about this army of the dead. In secret, though, what had happened to Jon terrified her. She didn’t know what they had done to him at the Wall, but whatever it was had indeed destroyed his mind. She was willing to believe him about the Others, since Ser Davos, Lord Stannis and many of the Wildlings had emphatically confirmed it. But this story about coming back from the dead after being murdered? No one other than Jon would talk to her about that, and obviously, it was ludicrous. When they had argued over whether to bring Rickon home, and whether to give over the castles of treasonous Northern Lords to Freefolk families, he had _sniffed_ her. He went about with a revolting giant raven on his shoulder, squawking nonsense that he didn’t even seem to hear. Furthermore, he hardly slept, and she often caught him drunk, late at night, staring up at the moon. She had approached him nervously at one of these moments, hoping to obtain moon tea from Val, the Wildling princess with whom he was quite close. In spite of his apparent insanity, Jon sensed that Sansa and Harrold were unhappy. He knew exactly what she was asking for, but the advantage of having a mad brother was that she could tell him just about anything.

“Old Nan would say I’d be killing my own baby,” Sansa had said.

“It is,” Jon had said. “But women ought be allowed to kill their babies…[6]” He had not stopped looking up at the moon. “Wolves do it all the time.”

A snowflake had fluttered down and landed directly on his eyeball. He did not blink. His hideous bird quarked, _Time_ , and flapped its wings.

“Good talk,” Sansa had said before walking away. She avoided him when he was drunk from then on.

She told no one that she thought Jon had lost his mind. The important thing was that Harrold stopped hurting her. They had both heard the Wildlings talk about the shocking and frightening way he fought his enemies in the Battle of the Bastards, how the berserker of Winterfell, Lord of Wolves, hacked them to pieces and drank their blood.[7] One evening, when Harrold got that look in his eyes, she had hinted of a rumor she’d heard among the smallfolk that Jon’s ears had become so powerful, he could hear goings on from the other end of the castle. Harrold had scoffed, but again, let her be.

“Well, if I can’t lie down I suppose I may as well practice in the yard a while,” Harrold was saying as Sansa handed off a pile of woolens to Maddy. “Don’t bother, Maddy…I can get them myself…”

Harrold yanked on his boots and jerkin, then rose and kissed Sansa’s cheek. He gave Randa a disdainful look, Sansa noticed, before taking his leave. As soon as he was gone, a look of alarm crossed Randa’s face.

“Where’s Mya?” Randa asked.

“Helping out in the greenhouse,” Sansa said. “Why?”

“Nothing, I just…well, she shouldn’t be alone is all…”

“You needn’t worry about her…she goes nowhere without a dirk and wouldn’t hesitate to use it, believe me. Oh, I just find it so lovely that you two are getting along!”

She pinched her lady’s dimpled cheek softly. Randa rolled her eyes, but Sansa was being very sincere. The two ladies had been at each other’s throats since Mya had informed on Randa to Sansa about the affair with Harrold. They had shared a tent in their camp beside the Green Fork, and their sniping and cattiness had driven Sansa to absolute distraction. It was bad enough that Lord Petyr refused to let them draw too near to Riverrun, her mother’s family’s castle, much less enter it. _It’s not safe, sweetling. Not yet. You must be patient_ , he’d said. So they slept together in a tent while Petyr negotiated with the Brotherhood Without Banners over territory and supplies. She was stuck there with Randa Royce and Mya Stone, who made the air even colder with the tension between them. The third night in a row with no word from Petyr, they woke Sansa up in the middle of the night, practically screaming at each other.

“Horseshit! I do not snore!” Randa was shouting.

“Whore! You shouldn’t even be allowed to share a bed with my lady!”

“ _Loudmouth bitch_!”

Sansa had leapt out of bed, stomped over to where they were standing, pulling at each other’s nightgowns, and slapped Randa across the face.

“I’ve heard it all now,” she snapped. “That’s the end of it!”

“ _See there you cunt_ …” Mya hissed.

Sansa shushed her with a good hard slap as well. “Keep it up and you’ll have another enemy – me!”

Mya and Randa had looked down at their feet, holding their red cheeks with their hands.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” Sansa told them. “Soon we return to Winterfell. _Listen to me_ …” She laced an arm around each of their waists and pulled them closer to each other. “The Boltons and the other traitors will be on the run now. With them and the Freys gone, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North will be _mine_. Ours...for the taking. There will be many opportunities for my ladies, _as long as we hold tight to each other_ …do you understand?”

Mya and Randa had nodded, hesitantly, not looking at one another.

“Now shake hands…” Sansa had ordered them. They pouted, frowning, petulant, until Sansa had seized them by their wrists and jammed their hands together. “ _Shake_ … _bloody_ … _hands_!”[8]

For a short time, Sansa had somewhat regretted losing her temper. The sight of the battle had fouled her mood, creeping into her dreams at night, like the cold. She thought she heard crows fluttering around outside the tent, threatening to tear open the canvas. Petyr was acting strangely, and wouldn’t explain to her in satisfactory detail what had happened to the Freys of The Twins, or how her uncles had regained Riverrun. He seemed to be under some terrible strain, even as he asserted that soon, not only would they have free reign of the Riverlands, but Casterly Rock might be at the mercy of the Brotherhood – all to their great advantage. Sansa had kissed him tenderly, and run her fingers through his hair, which had suddenly turned grey – almost white. _Tell me what’s wrong_ , she had begged. _Let me be of comfort to you_. But as much as his body betrayed his desire for her as always, he would not take her into his bed. It was a mystery, and Sansa didn’t care for mysteries. However, Randa and Mya had begun to get along, even confide in each other, so at least that nuisance was at an end.

When the folding was finished, Randa offered to take a stack into the sick room, where Lady Maege Mormont was recovering from a bad wound to the leg.

“Let me…” Sansa said, taking the pile instead. She had meant to speak to Val, who had been nursing the Lady of Bear Island since all that had passed for a nurse in Winterfell had fled. The Wildling princess had a knowledge of poultices and herbs, in addition to the tea that Sansa might need. She prepared herself for the smell of the sick room – always heady with sweat and rot or vinegar and vomit. When she arrived, however, the air smelled mostly of woodfire, and the Lady Mormont was upright, with Val seated smiling beside her.

Maege Mormont was a stark contrast to the Wildling princess. She was a stout, pock-cheeked woman with wild gray hair and a smile that was missing a great portion of teeth. Val, on the other hand, besides being much younger, was as beautiful as what Sansa imagined the old Targaryen queens had been, with sharp cheekbones, pink pouting lips, shining gold braids and eyes like tiny ice floes. She didn’t rise and curtsy, but sat where she was, head held high, as it wasn’t the Freefolk way to obey courtesies. She did smile and nod, though, and Sansa wasn’t about to give her a hard time.

“Good day, Lady Stark,” Maege said. “The lady Val and I were just talking about you!”

“Is that so?” Sansa set the linens on the table at the end of the bed.

“Just remarking what a beauty you are is all…” Val said. “Your people are lucky to have you caring for them as you do.”

“You’re too kind, princess,” Sansa said sincerely. “And I’m so pleased to see you well, Lady Mormont. I hope you are not in much pain.”

“Hardly any pain at all, thanks to Val.”

“Oh, sweet Val,” Sansa said. “I do hope you know how very grateful we are to have you here. Jon and I will do whatever we can to make you at home…say the word and it shall be done.”

Val looked knowingly at Lady Mormont and smiled, her cheeks turning red.

“Now my lady…” Maege said. “No need to fuss. Whatever Val wants, she’ll get for herself…don’t you worry.”

Sansa didn’t know what to make of that, so she just smiled and asked if she could get some tea for the ladies or something else from the kitchens. Maege Mormont leaned down to the side of the mattress then, and pulled something from beneath it, groaning from the pain in her thigh where the arrow had struck. Once she was again upright, she held out a sealed scroll.

“This, my lady, comes from your brother, King Robb…”

At the sound of her brother’s name, Sansa’s heart beat double time. Sure enough, the wax that held the letter closed bore Robb’s seal, the direwolf of House Stark. Sansa reached out and clutched it ever so gingerly, as if she expected it to fall apart at her touch. She felt Val’s eyes upon her as she ran a finger over the parchment, her own eyes filling with tears. There was a brown smudge on one side of it, which Sansa realized was dried blood.

“Truth is it was meant to be given over to Jon…but try finding that one standing still. Might have more luck snaring a shadow in the dark,” the Lady grunted.

Sansa composed herself. “Many thanks, Lady Mormont. I shall…I shall call a meeting with Jon and the Lords, and the….lieutenants…” Sansa wasn’t sure what to call Ser Davos, or Lord Stannis, or any of the Wildling captains who now presided over the castle. “I thank you, my lady, for keeping it safe.”

Having forgotten why she had gone into the sick room in the first place, Sansa wandered out into the courtyard, holding the scroll to her breast. For the first time in many days, the sun had broken through the clouds, illuminating the faces of the men and women working around her, who she realized suddenly, were all strangers.

Chapter 3: Dany

_Khaleesi…Khaleesi…it’s time to wake up…_

Dany groaned and rolled over, reaching for Missandei to cuddle, but her herald advisor was not in bed.

“It is nearly midday, my queen,” Maebi was saying. “You must dress and meet with the generals…come, eat some cake and drink your tea now.”

Dany pulled herself into a sitting position. “I was having the most _wonderful dream_ …”

Branrick the merchant had mixed the powder, which he called “Falia’s Bane” into some goat’s milk and honey. “The taste is foul,” he had told them. “The sweetness covers it well enough, but you must open your throat _wide_.”

The powder, which Branrick claimed might introduce a whole new industry to the Free Cities, came from a fungus that grew in cool, misty climates. _Like the Iron Islands_ , she had thought. It was greenish-brown, and tasted like dogshit tea. Branrick drank down the mixture first, without spilling a drop. Dandelion helped himself next, followed by Maebi. Missandei, Branrick said, was too young, and Jhiqui was afraid. Irri had imbibed, however, and finally Dany. She didn’t notice anything happening right away, but before long, a warm, comfortable feeling settled over her. She didn’t feel drunk – just mildly happy and at peace. The cupbearers one by one went to bed. Miklaz wiped Dany’s kiss from his cheek grumpily when Missandei pulled him away. That made Dany giggle. Ser Jorah Mormont looked on in disapproval, and refused at first to drink the mixture, even though Grey Worm and another Unsullied sergeant had arrived to watch over them so he didn’t have to. Dandelion began to sing and play a nonsensical little tune, caressing his lute like a lover.

_I spotted you in the sun_

_I called your name from a distance_

_I knew you were the one_

_I called again_

_I do declare I can float in the air_

_And with some love from above_

_Don’t caress the weasel and don’t fall too soon_

_Don’t seek the blood from the panther_

_Don’t take a trip to you soon_

_I’m the one holding time back from the sun_

_As I scope the lobe_

_I am the one who controls the sun… **[9]**_

Once Grey Worm relieved him, Rakharo drank the Bane mixed only with water. The face he made when it went down made Dany chortle like a hen. Rakharo laughed too, and before long, was leading Irri and Jhiqui off to bed with him.

“Are you all right, my queen?” Ser Jorah asked.

Dany smiled at the exiled knight who had followed her since she had wed Khal Drogo as a young girl so long ago. She had long forgiven him for having betrayed her, taking a pardon from the usurper who wished to kill her, but she often wished he would let go of this love. The way he felt was not meant for his queen but for a lover, which to him she could never be. He still had the inclination to drive her from any male advisor or general other than him, and that was troubling. Even Grey Worm and Rakharo, who had proven that they were hers, against all they had been bred and trained to be, couldn’t fully earn his trust. Naturally, he looked with suspicion upon Lord Tyrion and Moqorro, and Victarion he despised. He looked askance at the Freefolk captains and the sergeants of the Fiery Hand as well. If it were out of mere caution, the kind Ser Barristan Selmy had expressed from time to time, she could overlook it, but this was jealousy.

“I would be better, Ser,” Dany said. “If you would join me in testing Lord Branrick’s wares. Suppose I wish you to be his representative?”

“No need for that…he seems to represent himself just fine,” Ser Jorah said.

“I’m no lord, your grace,” Branrick said. “I’m only a merchant. I’ve no title to speak of.”

“Indeed…where do you hail from in Westeros, Branrick the merchant? Your accent is familiar…” Jorah’s voice was low, as it got when he was suspicious.

“As is yours,” Branrick answered. “You are of the North, yes?”

Dany suddenly realized that Branrick seemed very different. He was still scrawny, toothless and ghostly white, but he seemed a bit less stooped, and his eyes were able to focus. His voice, which normally quivered as in mortal fear, had steadied somewhat. It was if he had grown slightly younger, and certainly stronger. Was it the powder?

“I asked you first,” Jorah said.

Branrick poured more milk and mixed it with honey, then added the same amount as before, two spoonfuls, to the cup. He held it out to Ser Jorah, with a notably steady hand, missing half the fingers though it was. “I was born in the Iron Islands,” he said.

Dany drew closer…she had thought as much.

“My sister Yara and I wandered far and wide, following the fortunes of our father, but we always returned to the Islands. That is where Falia’s Bane was born. Falia is the name of my mother, who of fever during a time when we had nothing to eat.”

Ser Jorah cut his eyes at Branrick and stroked his beard thoughtfully. Dany walked over and took the cup herself. She clasped Branrick’s empty right hand, missing the last three fingers down to the first joint, and ran her thumb softly over the stumps.

“Poor Branrick…who did this to you?”

“It was my punishment, your grace…and deserved.”

Dany kissed the stumps one by one, while Branrick hung his head. Jorah’s nostrils flared.

“You are forgiven, and the Lord of Light protect you,” she said.

“The Lord defend you as well, gentle queen.”

“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Dany looked at Jorah as she spoke and drank the cup down. She held the empty cup out to her old general, who stomped over and took it, then held it out to Branrick.

“Go on then, merchant. Make me a quaff of this…bane.”

“At once, my lord.”

The truth was Dany hardly felt anything. Whatever this powder did was subtle…at one dose. But the second dose soon proved stronger, overwhelming her with a feeling of benevolence…followed by a chill.

Then suddenly, she was in the huge house of Ilyrio Mopatis, the wealthy man who had taken Dany and her brother Viserys in a few years before she was sold to Drogo. _Now you’ve done it…_ she heard Viserys, angry, but didn’t know where the voice came from. _You’ve woken the dragon!_ She looked right. She looked left. Where was he? She had to hide – to run…but it was too late. Viserys was upon her, pulling her down to the floor, a grip like a vice on the flesh of her arm, baring his teeth. His purple eyes gleamed. Dany began to cry, _No! Please!_ She tried to make herself small, to curl into a ball. _You’re going to die, slut. Die_! He throttled her as she fought, feeling his way inside her with his fingers, hurting her. She kicked at him helplessly. _Die…you’re going to die._ Suddenly it wasn’t Viserys at all. It was a fat, black-haired drunken man wearing a crown of gold antlers, who turned into a woman in a red gown with the head of a lion, who turned back into Viserys. _The dragon…you woke the dragon._ Dany closed her eyes tight. _Please don’t kill me…please!_ When she opened them again, it wasn’t Viserys, but a figure so white he was almost transparent, with blue eyes that glowed like cruel stars. Where he touched her was so cold, it burned.

Suddenly, it stopped. A hand held hers and lifted her up. It was Branrick. He wore shining black armor with the red sigil of the three-headed dragon on his breastplate. His white hair was long and braided and his greenish-brown eyes were gentle. _Come, my queen. Come away from this place…come back into the light._

Then Dany was in the Dothraki sea again…and yet she wasn’t. It was the same long, waving green plain as the great grass sea, but there was a smell of sea salt in the air, and in the distance, a deep green forest of strange trees that looked like tubes with leaves. Thunder rumbled, and great billowing dark clouds were gathering above, At the top of the hill, she saw the hovel from the same dream she’d had about the white wolf after she was beaten and raped. She ran toward it, feeling safer and safer the closer she came to it. When she came to the door, streaked with something red that ran down its planks, she pushed it open and looked inside. There sat a woman upon a tiny bed wearing a rough spun gown with an apron over it, splotched with flour as her cheeks were splotched with soot. She had silver-gold hair, like Dany’s, but tied into a tangled braid, stray strands sticking out in all directions. An infant child, wrapped in a motley patchwork blanket, sucked at her breast. She stroked his silver curls and sang to him.

Then it was Dany who was singing, Dany who was nursing the child. _Hey little boy, whatcha got there? Kind sir it’s a mollusk I found! Did you find it in the sandy ground? Does it emulate the ocean sound? **[10]**_ A rain began to fall, making a gentle thrumming sound against the thatched roof of the hovel. Buckets caught the drips that came down in a cheerful rhythm. In a corner, a scruffy gray cat slept while a mouse skittered across the dirt floor in front of it. A half-eaten loaf of coarse brown bread sat on a table, a little black spider scuttling past. Over a hearth, in which a small fire glowed and crackled, a pot of pease porridge was bubbling. In front of the fire sat a man in a creaky rocking chair, wearing a rough-spun shirt stained with sweat at the collar. The man’s black braid nearly reached the floor. There were no bells in it, and the man did not seem as large as Drogo, but Dany could not see his face to be sure. It was hidden behind that of a brown-haired little boy, about five or six years old, who snoozed upon his father’s shoulder. His forehead was beaded with the sweat of a broken fever, and his father gently rubbed his little back as they rocked. Dany heard the infant with the silver hair giggle, and she looked down to see his sweet smiling face, a trickle of milk running down one chubby little cheek.

It was at that moment, of all moments, that Maebi woke Dany up.

Dany chewed a piece of pumpkin cake and washed it down with hibiscus tea before bathing and washing her hair. She dressed in the black samite with the red epaulets and the dragon sewn in red thread on the front, and donned the headdress of black silk flowers and red coral with the onyx beading that wrapped around her neck. Shryli painted her face shiny white, with a red band across her eyes, and dusted her lips with silver mica. Her generals and advisors waited for her at the war table in the west wing of the manse: Rakharo, Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, Mother Mole, Maebi, Maester Marwyn, Ozzy of the Wildlings, and Venny of the Fiery Hand. Missandei announced her and then took the seat of honor beside her.

“Ladies, Lords…my apologies for the late arrival, and thank you for gathering here today, for I have come to a decision regarding our next initiative.”

Jhiqui placed a cup before her and poured a sweet Dornish red.

“We must call in Victarion and the Iron Fleet and select a number of galleys for travel on the Narrow Sea,” she said.

Rakharo spoke first, looking puzzled. “My Khaleesi wishes to sail to the Landing of Kings now, before securing the disputed lands?”

“I am not sailing to King’s Landing, blood of my blood. I am going North of the Wall.”

[1] Henson, Jim. _Labyrinth_ , Lucasfilm, 1986.

[2] _Holy Bible_. The book of Kings 3:16-28.

[3] Mahatma Ghandi: “If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change…”

[4] Prince and the Revolution. “Paisley Park,” _Around the World In a Day_ , Warner, 1985.

[5] Stuart, Mel. _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ , Warner Bros., 1971.

[6] C.K. Louie. _2017_ , Netflix, April 4, 2017.

[7] Coppola, Francis Ford. _Bram Stoker’s Dracula_ , Columbia Pictures, 1992.

[8] Coppola, Francis Ford. _The Cotton Club_ , Zoetrope Studios, 1984.

[9] Ween. “The Stallion Pt. 3,” _Pure Guava_ , Concord Music Group, 1992.

[10] Ween. “The Mollusk,” _The Mollusk_ , Elektra, 1997.


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